


The Skeptical Approach

by Heelshire_Mansion



Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Badass Greta, Canon-Typical Violence, Depressed Brahms, Eventual Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Malcolm isn't annoying in this, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:54:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23772646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heelshire_Mansion/pseuds/Heelshire_Mansion
Summary: Greta wasn’t religious, but she wasn’t entirely dismissive of the supernatural; if there was good evidence for it and all other possible explanations had been exhausted, she’d believe in what she saw. As far as she was concerned however, ghosts didn’t exist. No, what she had experienced had felt very real, solid.Suddenly, she was left with a far more chilling possibility; someone was living in the house with her.or,Greta is a normal rational person (see also: not written by dudes who think she'd believe in ghosts because she lost a child) and Brahms is a very depressed softie.
Relationships: Greta Evans/Brahms Heelshire
Comments: 41
Kudos: 112





	1. Who else would ever stay

Greta had explained it all away at first like any rational person in her place would: The noises around the house must have been the rats that lived in the walls. The doll had just fallen over a few times by itself and nobody else was to blame but gravity. Then her dress went missing, along with the necklace, and her room was trashed. Thieves, she thought, good thing she’d accidentally locked herself in the attic and didn’t stumble across them, or her life might have been in danger. She had deliberated for a while after that, thinking about calling the police, but she could only imagine the Heeshires’ reaction if they came back to find their house a mess - especially when nothing of theirs was missing. The couple was already eccentric and introverted enough that she could just imagine their outrage.

Those were all valid, logical conclusions. Nothing she couldn’t face by herself. Greta had always prided in her own self sufficiency anyway and, like any good problem solver, she got to work fixing it all immediately.

She had added more traps at first, even up in the attic - maybe the little rodents got in through there. Frustratingly enough, her plan didn’t work. She caught more rats, sure, but the noises continued unabated, and the little creatures kept up their nightly raids of the kitchen trash.

Still, this hadn’t been enough cause for alarm; not until the _incident_. 

Greta had thought she was going insane at the time, panic settling in before anything else could. The voice over the phone had sounded like that of a child, taunting her about the damn rules. How could a doll bring her back her lost shoes, then make her a pb&j sandwich? 

No, not a doll. The _ghost of a child._

_‘You’ve finally lost your mind, Greta,’_ she remembered thinking at that moment. She had soon after been overcome with hysterical laughter as if to prove her own point, terrified but uncaring in the madness of it all.

It had taken a while before she'd emerged from the feverish state she’d been thrown in, an hour at the very least. After her heart had slowed down enough for her to hear her own thoughts again, the absurdity of what she had just witnessed started settling in. Greta wasn’t religious, but she wasn’t entirely dismissive of the supernatural; if there was good evidence for it and all other possible explanations had been exhausted, she’d believe in what she saw. As far as she was concerned however, ghosts didn’t exist. No, what she had experienced had felt very real, solid. 

Suddenly, she was left with a far more chilling possibility; someone was living in the house with her.

\---

  
  


Nearly twenty four hours later, she felt a bit more like herself again, the horror of the situation subsiding somewhat with her new resolve. In her brief moment of panic, she had completely missed the footsteps outside her door, the crack in “Brahms’s” voice over the phone, the very obvious reason for the discarded food, and the oddness of Mrs Heelshire’s apology right before she left. 

The feeling of being watched had been there the entire time, Greta realised now, from the moment she’d stepped foot inside the old mansion. Something about running from Cole for months on end had sharpened her senses, made her so acutely aware of her surroundings to the point Sandy was worried she was becoming paranoid. Her therapist would probably agree with her best friend, but Greta was holding on to that alertedness like a lifeline. Her gut told her there was more to this, told her to run.

In the end, she’d chosen to defy it.

_‘It’s either this or going back to the States. Back to Cole.’_ A shudder ran through her at the thought as she prepared breakfast for two. _‘I will solve this. I will find this squatter’s hiding place and call the police. The Heelshires will probably thank me.’_ Well, thank her after they realised that whoever was living in the house, pretending to be the spirit of their dead son, was nothing more than an imposter.

Clinging to that tiny hope was all she had for now, but she’d be damned if she didn’t try at least.

Following the rules, as she had so politely been reminded to earlier, was easy and tricking the ghost person was even easier. They seemed content enough with this routine, a peace descending upon the house, as if the natural order of things had been restored. 'How long have they been doing this? What kind of heartless person impersonates a dead child?' Greta was disgusted at the thought, despite them having shown no ill intent towards her. She could understand the struggle of being homeless must make people willing to do anything in order to survive, but doing it for years? If Malcolm was correct, this had all started around the time the doll showed up. 

Time passed with no more incidents. If she was still being watched she saw no signs of her "roommate" being suspicious about her change in behaviour. They certainly didn’t stop her from roaming the hallways, looking for clues, anything to prove the existence of hidden passages or signs of life. Greta snooped around family heirlooms and photo albums, rummaged through ancient boxes in the attic, peeked into every nook and cranny, all the while ignoring the guilt she felt for looking through the old couple’s stuff. 

She mapped the house, keeping a small notebook of her findings on her at all times. Her plan progressed without a hitch, working during the day and staying up at night to keep track of the sounds in the walls by luring the ghost - what she'd started referring to her elusive roommate as - to other rooms. By the end of the week, she knew enough about the patterns surrounding their activity that she was confident she could now avoid them if she needed to.

Now, if only she could figure out _how_ to get in.

\---

Annoyingly enough, her nightly activities had consequences and the grocery guy was beginning to notice.

“You look a right state, Greta,” he’d said one afternoon, as he unpacked the groceries, “Is everything alright?”

She smiled, wishing she could trust Malcolm with it all. “Yeah. Just getting less sleep than usual, that’s all.”

“Climate not right for you?”

“You could say that.”

He didn’t push the subject and, for that, Greta was thankful. Malcolm was a decent guy; he had refrained from flirting with her after she’d turned him down a few nights ago and he wasn’t the type to stick his nose in other people’s business. Maybe in another life, she would have loved to date someone like him. As things were, however, she had a ghost roaming the house and a monster of an ex who was probably on his way to England to drag her back kicking and screaming. Romance was nowhere near to being a priority.

Instead, she found herself asking him more about Brahms Heelshire. The boy was long dead, but there was something in her chest, tugging at her incessantly. A curiosity, a sense of foreboding, a need to know the entire story.

Malcolm told her all he knew. About how people thought an 8 year old could crush the skull of another child, of the fire that had come at the worst possible moment. It was a tragedy no matter how one looked at it. 

“And you know all this how?” She asked, trying to steer the conversation away from the unpleasant subject, the back of her neck tingling with the feeling of being watched again.

Malcolm smiled and shrugged, “People tell me things, it’s part of the job. Besides, anything said in the pub ends up spreading to the rest of the town anyway. In there, even the walls have ears.”

Greta froze, her heart jumping in excitement. 

The walls. 

Whether Malcolm noticed or not, she didn’t care. She ushered him out as politely as she could, citing some non-existent chores as an excuse.

How had she not thought of it before? 

Grabbing hold of her notebook, she turned to the crude map of the house and the list of encounters marked on the side. She had been so wrong about the ghost's means of getting around the house unseen. It wasn’t secret passages, it wasn’t old servant entrances; it was narrow, dusty pathways within the walls.

\---

"Goodnight, Brahms." She leaned down to kiss the cold porcelain cheek of the doll, making sure to plaster a smile on her face. The ghost was watching, she could feel it. ‘ _Not even a ghost at this point’_ , she thought as she headed for the door, ‘ _rat seems more appropriate.’_

Stepping out into the hallway, Greta paused. ‘ _1, 2, 3, 4- There.’_ The faint shuffling inside the wall behind her told her all she needed to know. The ghost was retreating, right on schedule. Not for the first time, she wondered at how they managed to move nearly soundlessly. The ghost was probably someone tiny, slight, light on their feet.

That thought gave her some confidence. If they couldn't be reasoned with she could always take them in a fight. Not that she was planning to go in there unarmed. She didn't have a death wish.

Closing the door to her bedroom behind her, Greta got to work.

Dark clothes, a scarf to cover her mouth and nose just in case she stumbled across some nasty mold or asbestos in there (old Victorian houses had a tendency to become literal deathtraps if their owners neglected them, as far as Greta knew). She started stuffing a small messenger bag with the basic supplies she had gathered from all around the house, a task that had taken her longer than it should have, what with the ghost being such a needy brat. Now, if she could only remember where she'd put that flashlight-

The knock at the door startled her so badly, she nearly dropped the bag.

"Greta?" A voice, childish in nature, echoed in the hallway beyond, turning her blood to ice.

The knock came again; it was abrupt but not too loud, almost polite, familiar. 

The ghost was here.

Some long suppressed sense of self preservation must have clawed its way out of her brain and into her limbs, because she closed the distance in three strides and locked the door as quietly as she could.

Greta took a deep breath and willed her voice not to tremble, "Yes, Brahms?"

Feet shuffled on the other side of the door, but no reply came. Greta's mind raced, fear mingling with the relentless curiosity that had landed her in so much trouble in the past, and she had to fight against the realisation that the answers to everything she wanted to know were right behind this piece of wood. The ghost had left the safety of the walls and stood right outside, doing god knows what; all she had to do was turn that key and handle, and they'd be face to face at last.

Her fingers twitched at her side. ‘ _No,’_ the rational part of her brain warned, ‘ _what if it all goes horribly wrong? You're not even armed for fuck's sake!’_ She lowered her hand. The curious part of her, however, was as stubborn as ever, ‘ _They're probably just as tired of this farce as I am. Maybe I can convince them I'm not a threat.’_

As she argued with herself, the shuffling stopped. The scratching sound of paper on wood made Greta turn her eyes downwards, to the narrow gap under the door.

A yellowed envelope lay on the dusty floor of her bedroom, pushed in by the supposedly ethereal hands of a dead child, neatly folded and sealed.

Greta stared at the piece of paper for a few moments, before giving in. She picked it up and let her body rest against the door as she examined the old fashioned correspondence envelope. Had she not seen the rest of the house she'd think this was a prop for a period movie. The handwriting on the back certainly fit with the theme; calligraphic, curved and beautiful, yet neat and easy to read. Where normally the sender’s and recipient’s information would be, there were only two words: _I'm sorry._

Greta peeled off the seal - a capital H pressed in red wax that must have stood for Heelshire, her pulse thundering in her ears. 

There was no letter inside. She held the envelope open, surprise rooting her in place, as she took in its gleaming contents. The plain golden chain that had gone missing along with her coral dress was at the bottom but, as she pulled it out, she could feel an added weight to it.

Greta swallowed a gasp. The chain was no longer bare. She held it up, exposing the pendant to the ceiling light. A brilliant green stone hung from it, encased in matching intricately worked precious metal, partially opaque but clear enough that the light passing through it gave it its own verdant halo.

She stared, entranced and speechless, at the gift. This was old, probably priceless, ‘ _Definitely owned by the Heelshires or their parents._ ’ Greta didn’t know whether to be offended that the ghost had chosen a stolen pendant as a gift, or to give up what little was left of her sanity and sink to the floor laughing because _the ghost had given her a fucking gift._

‘ _Calm down, that psycho is still outside.’_ She had heard no footsteps, no shuffling on the hallway carpet. They were still waiting outside, probably for a response. 

“Th-,” she cleared her throat, “thank you.” If she focused long enough she could make out heavy breathing on the other side of the door. “I-It’s lovely.” Greta knew better than to antagonise this person. Cole had taught her the consequences of speaking her mind early on in their farce of a relationship and she’d kept that lesson close to heart. Lying came easily to her now, even if it was just lying by omission. If it kept her alive and safe from this person and their odd obsession with her for a while longer, she had no moral qualms about it.

Greta turned her head to press her ear against the wooden surface of the door. One minute passed with no signs of movement, and she briefly wondered if the ghost had gone through a wall and left her alone. She huffed. Nonsense; she had heard breathing, footsteps, all manners of things from them. Ghosts didn’t write letters as far as she knew.

Hand on the door handle, she was about to leave the safety of her room and head downstairs to retrieve the only weapon she could think of, when a sound stopped her dead in her tracks. It was a faint voice, barely audible even in the dead quiet that permeated the old house, not meant to be heard at all.

“Thank you for staying.”

He - because a voice that deep could only belong to a man - turned and padded down the hallway, leaving Greta a shell-shocked mess. By the time she managed to shake herself out of it and ripped the door open, he was long gone.


	2. Worthless in your arms

The old staircase creaked beneath her, as Greta placed her foot on the wrong part of a particularly loud step. She stilled, hoping that the ghost hadn’t noticed. 

_‘Easy,’_ she tried to rein her thoughts in, _‘one step at a time.’_ Her earlier run in with the ghost was still making her head spin with thoughts and possible explanations for his words. However easily he’d managed to change his voice into that of a small boy before, the confession outside her bedroom door had been bare, natural, containing a grief she had a hard time placing.

To her relief, the next step was perfectly quiet.

She made it to the kitchen an hour later than planned. Between the ghost man in the walls and his gift - and her own hesitation to leave the room until she was certain he was back in his lair, Greta was struggling to keep on schedule. She glanced at the clock; it was a few minutes past eleven. _‘Damn it.’_

It was pitch black both inside and outside the house and the weather must have worsened at some point, because as she neared the counter top, a flash of lightning bathed the entire room in harsh white light. Greta thanked her lucky stars for England’s consistently bad weather and the cover it could provide, and went for the knife stand, choosing the sharpest of the bunch. Not that she really had any knowledge or training with knives, but she couldn’t think of a more effective weapon at this point. Hopefully it wouldn’t come down to that; the ghost was clearly insane but seemed to be strangely fascinated with her. Greta shuddered remembering the strand of hair she had found missing. 

_Thump._

She froze. Had he found out?

_Thump._

The hair on her neck stood and she gripped the knife hard enough for her knuckles to turn white. _‘Hide it,’_ some part of her brain whispered, _‘it could make things worse if he sees it.’_ She took her own advice, hurriedly hiding her only weapon in the backpocket of her jeans - a precarious position but she was out of options at the moment. 

_Thump._

She took a few steps towards the sound. It felt familiar, like the sound of heavy worker boots on wood and it was coming from the entrance hall.

Greta stood in the kitchen doorway, scanning the darkness for any movement.

“Hello?” She waited. Nobody replied.

One step, two… She wanted to reach inside her bag and take out the flashlight. No; that would make her a glowing target for certain, if her blurted out _‘hello’_ hadn’t already done the job. A few more steps and she’d make it to the parlour. One, two, three…

Lightning flashed again, revealing the entirety of the large room for a mere second.

It was enough. 

Greta let out a yelp as a shadow other than her own projected itself on the floor. She spun around, hand reaching for the knife.

“Hello, Greta,” the familiar voice caused her to grip the handle tighter, ready to pull it out and brandish it at the one man she dreaded to see the most. She didn’t.

“Hi, Cole.”

\---

Cole stepped around her to make his way to the couch, all the while keeping his eyes on her like a circling vulture.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice wanted to tremble, the old familiar fear sipping in slowly through the cracks in her facade. _‘He found me, he found me, he-’_

He sat down first, never breaking eye contact, “What kind of a question is that, babe?” he huffed out a laugh, “I’m here for you.” He spread his limbs, his hulking form swallowing most of the couch. When Greta didn’t react, he continued, pretending not to understand why this entire situation wasn’t normal in the slightest, “I must say, this place is nice. Those old people must be loaded.”

She managed a step forward, her back straightening with borrowed courage. “They are. I can’t leave right now, Cole. They’re paying well.” It would be different this time. She wouldn’t let him win. “Besides, their son has special needs, it would be wrong to just abandon him.”

He searched her eyes for a second, then nodded, “I can understand that. Which is why you’ll call them and tell them you have to go.”

Greta began shaking her head, but before she could open her mouth, Cole stood up. He closed the distance between them and then some, forcing her to back up all the way to the nearby wall. His hands closed around her shoulder like claws, his thumbs digging painfully into her collarbone.

“Come now, Greta. You’re making me feel so unwelcome,” he towered over her, trapping her there easily, with no room to move or breathe or even think. His breath smelled faintly of alcohol as he spoke, “But I can’t blame you, I can’t.”

“Cole, I-” her voice shook and trailed off. She needed him off of her. His oppressive heat was suffocating her, his face made her want to claw her eyes out. All she wanted in that moment was for him to never have existed.

His nails dug deeper for a second, and the pain was enough to know she’d have bruises in the morning. Then, as if he’d heard her, he backed off.

He ran a hand through his hair in exasperation, “I’m trying to apologize, can’t you see that?” He was yelling now, “I did wrong, but you - you left me. What about my pain, huh? You only think about yourself.”

His fist connected with the wall right next to her head. “I need to know that you forgive me.” He said it through gritted teeth, emphasising each word.

Greta wouldn’t cry. There was no time for that. Cole grabbed the back of her head, bunching the hair there into a fist, and pulled, forcing her neck back painfully to make her meet his eyes. He was breathing hard and she knew what the expression on his face meant; he would gladly hurt her if she as much as uttered the wrong syllable. 

It was at that point that some detached part of her took over. There was only one way to survive this.

“I forgive you.” The words tasted like poison in her mouth but she let them out one by one, savouring them. They were nothing compared to the burning hatred in her gut. 

Somehow, it worked. The rage melted out of his face as quickly as it had appeared, and Cole smiled, “Good. We’re leaving in the morning.” He produced two plane tickets from his jacket, “I got you a ticket already. I knew you’d see reason.”

Greta blinked, unable to feel anything still, “What about Brahms?”

“Brahms?” Cole looked puzzled for a second, “Oh! The kid. Who names their child Brahms?” He snorted, clearly amused at that, “He can fend for himself for a day. What’s the worst thing that can happen?” 

Before Greta could reply, a loud bang startled them both. 

“What was that?” Cole paled, his earlier bravado gone. 

“Must be Brahms,” the lie fell off her tongue easily, “He has trouble sleeping sometimes and he can be a little demon.” She forced a fake smile on her face, “You know how children are. I should go check on him.”

Cole made a dismissive gesture, buying into it eagerly now that he had her submission. “Go.”

Greta didn’t need to be told twice. She walked briskly to the stairs and started up the steps, making sure she stepped on the most creaky ones this time. As soon as she turned the corner, she ran.

\---

“Are you here?” Greta burst into Brahms’s old room, barely keeping herself from shouting. The doll was sat on the bed, seemingly staring at her, and for a moment it made her wish there _really_ was a supernatural force around it, a haunting scary enough to chase Cole away once and for all.

But there wasn’t and she had to save herself. 

Abandoning all pretense of believing in the ghost child story, she made for the wall behind the bed and started knocking on it, listening for hollow spots. One knock, solid; two knocks, still solid; three… ‘ _What if he didn’t hear?’_ her brain suggested, very unhelpfully. 

_‘What if he doesn’t care?’_

The despair of that thought shook her out of her adrenaline-fuelled state. It all began sinking in; she had crossed an ocean to get away and yet here she was again, begging for help from someone who had been stalking her and stealing her things, because the alternative was far, far worse. 

“Please, I need your help,” the tears came, long overdue, “He’s going to hurt me.” She knew she was talking to herself at this point, but Greta didn’t care. Giving up on finding an opening, she sank down on the bed and drew the doll close, sobbing on the white porcelain. The knife in her back pocket mocked her. To think she had been planning to use it against the very person she was now begging for help… What a disgusting hypocrite she was. Maybe she deserved it all; the abuse, the fear, the paranoia, the pain. Maybe this was all she would ever amount to; a mess of a woman, stuck in an impossible situation, someone who did not deserve any reprieve or happiness. 

“Maybe,” she whispered against the doll, “but I won’t go without a fight.”

“What is this?”

Somehow, in the turmoil caused by her thoughts, Greta had missed the heavy boots coming up the stairs.

“Is this some kind of joke!?” Cole crossed the threshold, his face stormy. He grabbed the doll and pulled it out of her arms. “ _This_ is the child?”

“Cole, you don’t under-”

He cut her off, “Oh, I understand perfectly. You thought you’d scare me away by pretending you’ve gone crazy, is that it?” She didn’t answer. “Do you take me for a fool, Greta? I’d never fall for that.”

“I’m not crazy, Cole. The doll is their child.” 

“And it makes noises by itself? Spare me the bullshit. I bet there’s someone in here, hiding and helping you sell this.” He walked in front of the fireplace, looking around the room, “Come out! You think you can keep her from me?” She could tell by the frenzied look in his eyes that his temper was already out of control. She knew what was coming, “Maybe this will convince you.”

With that, he advanced on her, making her shrink against the headboard of the small bed. His free hand grasped her hair again and pulled. Greta dug her nails in his wrist, trying to resist him as he dragged her up and out of the room. She cried and scratched the entire way, but he pushed her down the stairs, to the entrance, regardless.

“Shut it!” he barked at her. By reflex she did as she was told, swallowing any and all sounds that wanted to escape her. “Still not coming?”

Silence, and then,

_THUMP_

It came from the walls. He was close.

**_THUMP_ **

It was louder than ever before, angry almost. Something fluttered in her stomach. Greta silenced that too.

“You wanna play games?” Cole shouted at nothing and, with more than a little satisfaction, Greta noticed how he was looking more and more uncertain with each sound coming from the walls. 

**_THUMP_ **

He released her and pushed her away. “You think you can scare me?” He held up the doll, “With this stupid toy?” 

“Cole…”

“Shut up.”

It all happened in slow motion for her. Cole pulled his arm back and threw the doll on the floor with as much force as he could. The old porcelain broke on impact, scattering dust and fragments all over the hardwood floor and carpet. 

All noises stopped. Greta stood rooted in place, eyes wide at the mess. Whatever silence had descended upon the house was far from peaceful, the pitter-patter of rain on the sealed windows doing little to calm the hammering in her chest. 

Then the scratching in the walls started. No, not scratching; it was-

_THUMP_

“It’s closer,” Cole said. He approached the wall, putting his ear against the surface of the hall mirror. “I can hear-”

All hell broke loose. Without any warning, the mirror shattered completely, its shards embedding themselves in Cole’s face and hands. He fell down, bleeding heavily from the cuts on his paling face, horror written across his features. Greta followed his gaze. She couldn’t help it, her eyes were meant to see him; the figure standing inside the broken mirror.

“Greta?” The voice was that of a child’s. She had known all along, and yet the shock of finally seeing him had created a howling void in her brain, of nothing and everything all at once.

A large, long fingered hand gripped the frame, then a face - no, a mask - leaned down and forward. A mask that matched the doll. _‘Why?’_ A thought managed to echo above the rest inside her head. It all ceased to matter once the rest of him stepped out of the mirror. _‘Gods, he’s too tall.’_ He was probably taller than Cole, maybe thinner. Unruly curls fell over the mask, an old cardigan covering most of him and his old-fashioned clothes. The ghost was real, and he was right there in front of her.

“What the hell?” Cole had managed to stand up on his own. He took a step towards the ghost.

It was a mistake. 

The cry that came out of the ghost was not in the voice of a child. He charged at Cole, gracelessly but with a fury she hadn’t expected of him, and took the other man down with him. Cole struggled, kicked and tried to throw a punch, but the ghost held him down with an ease disproportionated to his slimness. 

As the two men wrestled on the ground, Greta found her mind finally resurfacing. None of it made sense, all of it did, but in this moment she needed to act. Her hand found the knife handle - still sheathed in the back of her pants - and she braced herself for what she might have to do. The ghost reared back, bringing his fist down on the uninjured side of Cole’s face with a viciousness that shocked her. Sweat glistened on his skin, the hair on his chest matted with it and, as the cardigan fell down his shoulders, her eyes caught a glimpse of a burn scar, climbing up his neck and disappearing beneath the white mask. 

Greta’s mouth fell open, her mind making the connection at last, “Brahms?”

At the sound of his name he turned his bloodshot eyes on her. He was breathing heavily now, but something in his gaze softened as he took her in. _‘It is him.’_ There was no other explanation for it. The burns, the fact that he had lived in this house for twenty years without anyone ever raising an issue, how fast he turned when she called his name; Brahms Heelshire was still alive. 

Of course Cole was not a complete idiot, because as soon as he realised his opponent was distracted, he landed a hard punch to his temple. It took Brahms by surprise, sending him to the ground, dazed. Another punch to his solar plexus kept him down, and Cole made sure to pin him to the floor first before reaching for a weapon. 

“No!” Greta jolted out of whatever shock had kept her still and rushed to stop him. Her nails dug into his wrist and twisted it backwards, painfully, and away from the small coffee table and the letter opener lying there. He threw her off almost immediately but it was enough.

Cole stilled. His mouth opened and closed in shock for a second, staring at her with a look of betrayal in his unfocused eyes. When he fell sideways and away from Brahms, she saw it; there was a long porcelain shard protruding from his stomach, painting his shirt red with blood. The youngest Heelshire threw the dying man off and got to his feet.

Greta’s eyes darted between them for a moment, before settling on Brahms. Primal fear gathered in her gut seeing him like this. His tank top was bloody and part of his mask was broken and coming off. The skin beneath was bleeding, but it was so badly scarred that she doubted he felt much. She wanted to take a step back, she wanted to run. He had just murdered Cole. Would he do the same to her?

The silence that stretched between them felt fragile, thin. Brahms took a step towards her, slowly - as if afraid of spooking a wild animal, then another when she didn’t move. Greta wanted to scream, her heart going wild in her chest. It was so loud she would bet that Brahms could hear it. Was this how she’d die? Frozen in terror and cowering in a corner? She probably deserved it, anyway. She had taken her chances by helping Brahms instead of Cole and now she was going to pay for that choice.

Greta pressed her eyes shut, bracing for the blow.

\---

“He hurt you,” Brahms spoke up, his voice starting out thin and childish, then failing and melting back to its normal range. “I’m sorry.”

She blinked. Greta had to crane her head upwards to meet his gaze and follow it. He was looking at the bruises Cole had left on her collarbone, the worst of them already transitioning from red to purple. The porcelain shard was no longer in his hand; instead it lay forgotten on the floor, still drenched in Cole’s blood. He brought his other hand - the less bloody one - up, letting it hover over the bruises, his fingers trembling despite not touching her, as if she was going to break and disappear if he did.

And maybe she would have, in that moment.

Brahms leaned over her and took a deep breath. Was he taking in her scent? She shuddered, realising not for the first time, how dangerous this man was. The knife was still there, in her back pocket, and Greta thanked her lucky stars for it. If - when - he tried to force himself on her, she’d be ready. 

“Brahms…” she started, a plan forming in her head. When he didn’t respond, she tried again, “Brahms!”

He jumped. The image of a man his size being startled by her yelling his name would have been comical in a different context, but right at that moment, with Cole’s body growing cold a few feet away, it wasn’t. “We can’t leave him there,” she kept her voice steady, certain, “I need you to get me a large bag.” Of course, she knew where those were already. It would take Brahms a while to find them and bring them back here. By then, it would be too late. “I’ll do the rest.”

Brahms nodded and turned to go. As he disappeared behind the broken mirror, some misplaced sense of guilt tugged at her. Not over Cole’s death, not about her choice and hand in it either; it was about the man who had just saved her life. What kind of life had he led in there for twenty years? Who would willingly stay trapped inside the walls for so long? And, more importantly, what kind of parents did that to an eight year old.

_ ‘Later,’  _ Greta promised herself. She’d figure it out later, when she was far, far away from all of it, safe inside a police station.  _ ‘My bag,’  _ she remembered suddenly, head snapping towards the kitchen. She nearly ran there, finding the small messenger bag still intact, sitting right where she’d left it on the kitchen table. It all felt like a lifetime ago; planning to look for ‘the ghost’, sneaking around so he wouldn’t know, following the rules. Now she had met Brahms Heelshire and he was not what she had expected.

Greta took the bag and threw it over one shoulder. Brahms would be back in a few minutes at best, she needed to get a move on. 

She walked back to the entrance and stopped.

Cole was gone.

Her heart jumped. Greta’s eyes darted around the room frantically, but there was no body on the expensive oriental carpet, just a large darkening blood stain.

He was dead. At the very least, he had been unconscious and bleeding out. Maybe she was losing her mind.

“Cole?” she tried, voice straining over the syllables of his name.  _ ‘Please don’t answer, please don’t-’ _

A large hand covered her mouth, pulling her back against a wide torso. She bit down, guided solely by instinct, and she heard him yelp in pain. His grip didn’t falter. 

“You thought I was dead. You thought you got rid of me.” He breathed heavily in her ear, “Did you plan this while you fucked him? Maybe I should make you watch, when I kill him.” He chuckled. Greta had never seen him this deranged, “Or should I make  _ him _ watch?” His other hand, the one locking her in place by the waist, trailed down to the hem of her jeans, fingers toying with the button there, “I’ll make you mine. You’ll forget all about him, Greta. You belong only to  _ me. _ ” 

Panic took over at last. She struggled, freeing her elbow for long enough to jab it in his stomach. He cried out in pain and let her go for just a moment, but that was all Greta needed to grab the knife. Turning around to face him, all she saw was a mess of a man, yellow-faced, his expression morphed into something monstrous and desperate. 

There were no more thoughts in Greta’s head. She didn’t think, she charged at him instead. They both toppled over, falling to the floor. 

Cole tried to throw her off of him, but he was too weak and she was filled with adrenaline. He held off the hand that was holding the knife, but Greta wasn’t done. Her other hand gripped his throat with a viciousness she didn’t realise she possessed, cutting off his airway. Teeth bared, she put her entire weight into it, nails sinking into his skin. She didn’t register any pain, no voice in her head was telling her to stop. All she knew in the moment was, it was either her or him.

He seemed to know it too, maybe he could see it in her eyes, because he renewed his struggle. He brought both hands to his neck, trying to peel hers off. 

Greta’s other hand was free; and so was the knife. 

There was no hesitation, no second thoughts. It was so easy - too easy - to sink a knife in a man’s neck. The skin gave way, soft and pliant, warm blood sprouting from the wound as Cole gagged and began drowning in it. He looked at her, eyes wide, growing dull with each heartbeat as his life spurted out of him. Even in that last moment, he looked surprised, as if he didn’t think her capable of any of that.

Greta remained there, on top of her dying ex, and watched. 

She didn’t know how much time had passed, but she came back to herself eventually. 

Cole was dead. For good this time.

She had killed him.

Seconds passed, minutes, an eternity. A hand touched her then, plying her fingers open one by one. Greta didn’t react. 

The knife dropped to the floor.

“B-,” her throat felt clogged, and for a second she wondered if she was going to drown in blood just like Cole. 

Strong arms lifted her off the floor, holding her against something warm. She lifted her gaze and found warm grey eyes staring back, awe and pity and something else swirling in their depths. She needed to know if he was real. 

He didn’t flinch when her bloody fingers trailed over his scarred jaw. 

“Greta,” he started, and...

...the world faded to black. 


	3. Chaconne

Greta knew she was dreaming, but her dream self didn’t seem to care. It was warm and sunny, the Heelshire mansion shining in a way she had never seen before. The garden was in bloom, full of flowers and insects she wasn’t familiar with, and a myriad of smells drifted in through the open windows, luring her outside. 

She floated to the pond, a real smile on her face. The water looked inviting, so clear she could see the bottom. Maybe she could take a dip, just her feet, because gods knew she deserved it. 

She threw her shoes off, gathering her knee-length white skirt up to her thighs. It wouldn’t do to get it wet. Her toes touched the cool water hesitantly, but soon Greta had both feet submerged. Sighing in relief, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

The smell that hit her wasn’t right. It smelled coppery, strong.

Greta looked down, and screamed. 

The pond was made of blood, dark and rotting, sticking to her legs and staining her dress as she struggled to get out. Red soaked through white - she swallowed down another scream. 

There was nowhere to run; the garden had turned into a maze, the hedge withering as soon as she came close to it. The sky turned dark but there were no clouds on the horizon. It was just a thick haze that had descended on top of everything, filling the rows upon rows of maze with a thick fog. 

She wanted to cry, but no tears came out. There was only one way forward. 

The dead plants came to life, reaching out to grab her, thorns cutting into her skin, shredding through her dress, and she was lost, lost and about to die in here-

A long drawn out note echoed somewhere on her left. 

A violin. 

Greta chased the sound as if it was a light at the end of a tunnel. She was getting closer and closer and-

.

.

She woke up.

\---

Greta didn’t open her eyes. She was warm, so warm, sunlight hitting her closed eyelids, streaming down her neck and back. This wasn’t her bed; it was smaller and it smelled different, of musk and plain soap. But it was comfortable, safe. If she stayed there, she could just pretend last night never happened.

Faint music reached her ears; someone was actually playing the violin. The song was heart wrenching, it slowed down and then picked up speed again, two strings played at the same time, creating the illusion of two violins instead of one. It was rousing, in a way, familiar like someone calling her name softly.

She opened her eyes. 

The light blinded her at first, cascading down through windows on the ceiling, filling the room with a pleasant glow. Dust particles danced around her as she sat up, escaping from her mostly wooden surroundings. The walls, the floor, the furniture, everything; she was in the heart of the house, enveloped by it from all sides, the very sunlight she felt on her skin was further away than it seemed. This was nothing but a charming prison cell.

This was Brahms’ room.

There was a bathtub, a mirror, a sink, a fully equipped kitchen along with a fridge. All manner of things hung from the walls - from star-shaped lights right above her on the bed to pieces of string and makeshift noise cancelling made from empty egg cases. Books were stacked high almost everywhere and the support beams were covered from top to bottom in sheet music. Greta threw off what seemed to be two smaller quilts sewn together by hand and began wondering whether it was his doing, right as her gaze fell on an entire cabinet filled with all manner of crafting and sewing equipment at the opposite wall. 

She looked up, her eyes finally becoming accustomed to the light. There was a second floor of sorts - a mezzanine. She stood and went to take a step, curious about it all, when she realised her feet were bare; her boots were at the foot of the small bed - gods how did he fit in this - and suddenly remembering whose arms she had fainted in, Greta began frantically checking the rest of her clothes. 

Nothing was out of place - Brahms hadn’t touched her. She sighed in relief, but the tension didn’t leave her body, because the sight that greeted her once she finally looked up was everything she had expected - and everything she dreaded. Traps and embalmed animals littered the second floor, potted plants still green and sprouting new leaves decorated the edges of each step, but what caught her eye was the doll. 

It wasn’t the Brahms doll; it sat just beyond the top step, wearing her coral dress and a wig nearly identical to her hair, hand-sewn letters all over its arms. The Greta doll - because that was what it was - had no face. It was plain, put together expertly but hastily.  _ ‘Is this where my missing lock of hair went?’  _ She thought in a detached manner. The expected panic never came, but she didn’t want to linger on the reasons for that. 

Greta returned to the bed, to retrieve her boots. The numbness was refusing to leave her thoughts, but her muscles were nearly seizing with tension.

There was a letter on the nightstand, lying there open, unassuming. Somehow, she had missed it before. It was addressed to Brahms by Mr and Mrs Heelshire. She shouldn’t be reading this, she knew that, but there were few things left in her she had inhibitions about and none of those were stopping her at the moment. 

“...she is yours to love and care for,” her lips formed the words, her voice made them real. They twisted inside her chest like a vice, strangling her from the inside. She kept going, her breaths becoming gasps, “May God forgive us all… ” Had the Heelshires trapped her here? Why would they leave their son after twenty years?  _ ‘Did they run away?’ _ The thought was infuriating, but it fit with their words. They dumped their son on her, like a burden they couldn’t carry anymore. It made no sense. Weren’t they the ones who had kept him under lock and key?

She should have run, she still could. Instead, she closed her eyes and counted, bringing herself down from the fast approaching panic attack she had been suppressing all along. 

The violin went on. 

Greta listened for a minute, matching the rise and fall of her chest to its rhythm. She had nothing left to lose. Cole was dead by her hand and, by taking back her peace of mind, her safety, she had cost herself her freedom. She would be arrested, charged, imprisoned, but first she would have some answers. 

She put her shoes on and made for the exit, following the song. 

The wooden panel - because that was no proper door no matter how one saw it - opened easily enough. There was a whole different world inside the walls. If it was dusty in Brahms’ room, this place was ten times worse, layers upon layers of dust and a thick carpet of debris covering the floor, spiderwebs filling up every corner. Still, there were light fixtures where there should be none and, along with the sunlight that filtered in through the cracks, they made the passages traversable. 

The rules were nailed to the walls, each one behind its corresponding room. Next to that was a hole, barely big enough for someone to look through.  _ ‘He was watching,’  _ it was a matter of fact already, yet now it felt real,  _ ‘he could only watch.’ _ There was something grim about that. She didn’t want to think about it for too long.

  1. _Play Music Loud._



The library. Greta leaned forward, bracing against the wood on her fingertips, and looked. He was there, standing in the middle of the large room, violin in hand. He didn’t slouch this time, keeping his posture straight, proper, and his eyes closed as the music flowed freely from the instrument. His fingers danced on the strings, mesmerizingly fast and nimble, the piece he was playing picking up speed as it went. He was talented, the violin seemingly an extra limb he could control at will. Greta stared, transfixed by the novelty of it all. 

The distant caw of a raven broke the spell and she blinked. 

There was one place where she knew that had a passage. Greta headed to Brahms’ old room, careful not to make a lot of noise. The entrance seemed obvious from this side of the wall; it was a small panel that sat unassuming and unmarked next to the fireplace. She pushed it open and crawled through, marvelling at how Brahms made it through without bumping his head each time. He had always been so quiet, merely a shadow, a ghost. She was as clumsy as a newborn by comparison.

Brahms was still playing when she made it to the library.

“We need to talk.” 

The music faltered, and stopped.

\---

Brahms turned, but not towards her. His shoulders tensed, but all Greta could see of him was his back. 

She took a step forward, “Brahms?”

“Stop!” His voice startled her. It was hard to get used to, “Don’t come any closer.”

Both bow and violin hung from his left hand, his right hand too busy shielding his face from her. Greta huffed, part of her annoyed at his shyness. It hadn’t been there last night and it wasn’t going to stop her from getting answers now.

“You know I’ve seen the scars already. There’s no point in hiding them.” Perhaps her tone was harsher than necessary, but she didn’t care.

It didn’t seem to convince him. “I’ll go back soon. I promise.” 

“What are you even talking about? The least you can do after what happened is turn around and face me!” His words made no sense to her, but she wasn’t letting him go anywhere before he answered her questions. 

He was breathing hard, though Greta couldn’t read much of his body language from this angle. 

A minute passed before he spoke again, “I’m not supposed to be here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t exist. I’m dead.” His hand dropped to his side, limp, “I can only watch everyone else come and go and talk and live. But me? I have to stay. Always stay,” his voice grew more frantic, “ ‘Never go outside, Brahms,’ mother used to say, ‘bad things will happen.’ How right she was.”

Greta remembered the letter then, and her stomach twisted. “Is that why they brought me here? To keep you company?”

He nodded. “I didn’t want them to leave. They brought so many before you, all of them skilled and capable of keeping the house in order. I didn’t like them.” The small part of his face she could see moved, his scarred cheek lifting slightly, “Then you came and you laughed at the doll. You didn’t fuss about your shoes going missing, you explored the house and you seemed so  _ different, _ so alive _. _ ”

He trailed off, probably realising how he sounded. Gods, was he in love with her? 

“Brahms, I…” What could she even say? Thank him for not assaulting her?  _ ‘He saved your life, he took care of you when you were out cold,’ _ a less cynical part of her brain reminded her. Greta bit her lip. She had to stir the subject away from whatever misguided feelings he might have for her. “How did you get that scar?”

A stupid question. She already knew there was a fire.

Brahms took in a shaky breath and set the violin down, “I did that to myself. You already know the rest.”

“I don’t-” 

“I heard everything, Greta,” his voice was almost a whisper, “Malcolm painted quite a nice picture of me, didn’t he?” He huffed, “Not that he was wrong.”

“Why would you scar yourself?” The question slipped from her mouth before she could stop it.

_ ‘Great job, Greta. Insult the psycho. Now he’s going to kill you.’ _

The atmosphere in the room changed, turned sour. She tensed.

He turned towards her, despair and anger morphing his scarred face into something nearly terrifying. “Do you care?” He advanced towards her, “Don’t pretend you do. You were planning to leave, even after what I did for you.” At her wide eyes, he added, “Don’t look so surprised. I found your bag, Greta.”

Something rose in her chest, a bubbling mix made of exhaustion both physical and mental, the strain of the past few days - no, months - spilling out of her in a torrent of words, “And what did you expect me to do? I ran from someone who controlled and watched my every move, someone who treated me like property, and I ended up here. You watched me,  _ violated me, _ ” he opened his mouth to refute her but she was far from done, “you did, Brahms. You creeped in the walls, watched me change, took my clothes and cut my hair for fuck’s sake!

“I saw the doll you made, I read the letter too. You didn’t even bother hiding your intentions,” Greta was breathing hard, her throat already straining as she shouted it all out, “Would you stay if you were me?”

His face fell as the words sunk in. It had felt so cathartic to let it all out and she was fully prepared for the aftermath, for the violence she was used to receiving from Cole. Instead, Brahms shrunk into himself.

“I did stay.” Her heart faltered at his response; he sounded broken. “You’re right. I- Forgive me,” he turned back to his violin, handling it with a care that seemed so out of character for a man his size, “I- I took care of Cole’s body. If you want to leave, I won’t stop you.” 

With that, Brahms Heelshire faced her one last time and, without meeting her eyes, left the room. 

\--- 

  
  


Greta didn’t own a lot. Her suitcase, if it could even be called that, was closer to a cabin bag in size. As a result, it took her about an hour to gather everything up and fill it, even at the slow pace she set for herself. She didn’t know why she was hesitating like this. Brahms had apologised, yes, but that didn’t take back what he did.

She hadn’t called the airline yet, and using Cole’s ticket was out of the question. She might as well paint a target on her back and put a sign that read “Murderer” on her forehead, if she did that. Strangely enough, she didn’t feel any remorse for killing him. The entirety of her stress came from the possibility of being arrested, and even that had a low chance of happening; Cole was a gang member and he had a record in five states for drug trafficking. Greta kept her fingers crossed that the police wouldn’t care about a drug dealer’s disappearance enough to investigate the case in depth.

Her hand hovered over the phone. She could call Sandy and borrow some money for the ticket. Or she could ask Malcolm to use his card and give him the cash the Heelshires had paid her with. No, what if Brahms needed that? He was technically dead, and had no access to his parents’ assets.

Greta pulled her hand back. 

Her thoughts kept turning to him.  _ ‘He’s going to be fine. It’s not like you owe him anything.’ _

Determined to not let her own sense of responsibility sabotage her, Greta returned to her suitcase and started making sure all of her stuff was accounted for. Shirts - check, jeans - check, makeup bag -

A knock at her door made her look up. It was as if a surge of electricity ran to the edges of her limbs, zapping her legs into action. She abandoned the suitcase, still open on the bed, and reached the door in a few strides. 

“Look, Brahms I-,” Greta cut herself off. It wasn’t him on the other side of the door. 

“I know I’m short, but I’m not as short as that wee lad over there,” Malcolm pointed to the bedroom across the hall and the doll that was supposed to be sitting on the bed there, behind the closed door. Monday; it was groceries delivery day.  _ ‘I guess commiting murder messes with your sense of time.’  _ He gave her his usual wink, but she could see him holding back the urge to ask. 

Greta leaned against the doorframe with what she hoped was an easy smile, “Sorry, Malcolm. You know how lonely it gets up here,” she furrowed her eyebrows in mock concern, “I’m probably going nuts, you know, what if I start talking to the doll?”

He relaxed at that, “I’d never let that happen! You, me, drinks. Tonight. I’ll get some friends to join us if you want- Wait, is that a suitcase?” He craned his neck to look past her, “Are you going somewhere?” he paused, “Is it because you heard the news?”

“I- What news?”

Malcolm’s expression fell. “You don’t know.” He made a motion with his head, “Come downstairs, I’ll tell you while you sign for the delivery.”

Greta didn’t protest. Last time Malcolm had looked this grim, he was telling her about Brahms Heelshire and how half the town believed he had murdered his playmate.

Had he really done it? She remembered his viciousness as he attacked Cole, how he didn’t hesitate to stab him. Yet now, after their argument in the library, Brahms had retreated back to his room inside the walls, neglecting their daily routine and leaving her entirely up to her own devices. Something made her uneasy about it all. She didn’t think he would stop her from leaving, no; he hadn’t lied to her yet. It was-

“Greta?” She blinked, “I lost you there for a second.” Malcolm gave her a concerned look, “Maybe you really need some time off.”

They were already in the kitchen. Gods, she really was losing it. “Sorry, yeah, you’re probably right about that.”

He stared at her for a moment, “You.. you’d tell me if there was something going on, right? You can rely on me.”

Greta smiled a genuine smile then, “Thank you, Malcolm. Everything’s fine, I just stayed up late.”

“Right,” he didn’t seem to believe her entirely but he went to the grocery bags and started putting stuff on the shelves and fridge. She rushed to help him, feeling somewhat guilty for lying to the only other person she knew in this place. “So,” he continued, “I shouldn’t be surprised you don’t know. There’s no internet here, is there? Or even a telly for that matter.”

She shrugged, “The Heelshires are very old fashioned people.” To the point of making their son a shut-in instead of taking him to therapy, her mind added.

“Were. They...were found dead this morning.” 

Greta froze mid-motion. She set down the bottle of milk she was holding, barely conscious of the trembling in her hand. 

The letter, they had just left him a letter.  _ ‘We cannot bear to live with what we have allowed you to become.’ _

“Apparently it was suicide. They used stones to drown themselves in a lake nearby, but once they were dead, their bodies floated up.” 

_ ‘We will not be back’ _

“They were found by a man walking his dog. Poor sod, that must’ve been a terrible sight.”

_ ‘Brahms’ _ He knew already. And if he didnt, he was probably listening. How had she not made the connection before? This hadn’t been a mere goodbye letter; it was a suicide note.

“So,” she swallowed back the horror of the realisation, “what now?”

Malcolm shrugged, “They set up payments till the end of the year. I’ll keep showing up as long as there’s someone living in this place.” He turned to her, “You are staying, aren’t you?”

Greta was so, so tired. She wasn’t sure how to keep up the facade of normalcy anymore. For once, the only answer she could give him was the honest one, “I don’t know.”

\---

Malcolm had left soon after they finished emptying the kitchen freezer. 

The house felt empty now, emptier than before, and for a moment, Greta found herself missing the sound of the violin. At first, her feet took her back to the library, and she had to quell the sudden urge to play the piano, turn her thoughts into music and let them fall in place - make sense again. She should go, leave this place behind her and get back to civilisation, back to normal people who didn’t hide behind porcelain masks and weren’t so thoroughly broken. 

She walked mechanically back to her bedroom. The door was still open and all her stuff was in its place, just the way she’d left them. Everything, except her suitcase.

Something brightly coloured caught her eye. It couldn’t be...

She crossed the room and reached for the coral dress with hesitant fingers, tracing the cool fabric in shocked wonder. It was neatly folded and set on top of the rest of her clothes; nothing else had been disturbed.

Greta blinked back tears, annoyed at herself for them. The turmoil in her chest demanded them, it burned her lungs and choked the breath out of her, but she had other plans. 

She marched outside her room and across the hallway, throwing the door to Brahms’ old room open. The path to his new room through the walls was easy to find, even with her vision as blurred as it was; the memory of walking through the narrow passages had been burned into her brain. 

“Brahms.” She didn’t knock, not with the door already open. 

He didn’t turn but he didn’t ignore her either, “You should go with Malcolm. It’s going to get dark soon.” Greta watched as he glued the doll back together with steady hands. He had fixed the mask at some point, because it was back on his face. She resented the thing, Greta realised in that moment; it and what it represented.

“I haven’t packed everything yet.” If he knew it was a lie, he didn’t say anything about it. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice broke, but not out of grief for the old couple; they weren’t the ones who had intervened when Cole attacked her, or took care of her when she had passed out. Brahms had.

He set down the piece of porcelain he was holding and stood, “Would it change anything?”

_ ‘Yes!’ _

“Maybe.” He wasn’t her responsibility, there was nothing between them. “Just… What did you expect would happen, Brahms? I never asked for any of this, I-” She bit back the rest - this wasn’t the time to talk about herself - and walked up to him instead, hoping to look at his face. Of course, she was met with the mask.

“It doesn’t matter now,” he said quietly, “ They’re dead because of me. It will happen to you too if you stay, sooner or later.” 

“You know that’s not true,” his chest rose and fell irregularly now, like he was struggling to control his breathing, “Brahms…” 

She raised her arm slowly, wary of his reaction. The edge of the mask was cold compared to the skin beneath it, and she hesitated for a second; then, when he didn’t move to stop her, she lifted it. 

Tears gleamed on his skin, the thin streams caught between the ridges of his scarred cheek on one side, yet falling free all the way down to his jaw on the other. “Oh, Brahms,” she said his name in a whisper, without realising. His sorrow wrapped around her heart too, like a string connecting her to him. 

She set the mask down on the desk carefully, wanting nothing more than to smash it to bits but fearing the way its fragility reflected on its owner. Captive of his parents or not, Greta could not pretend to understand the way Brahms loved them, but he did.

She lifted her other hand, tentatively, to catch a tear as it began its descent. 

Brahms caught her wrist.

“You should leave.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he released her and went back to his work.

Greta stood there for a few seconds longer. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she didn’t know what else to say. 

She closed the door behind her.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. And the world was gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicide attempt

The lightning made Greta jump. It was already dark outside and there was nobody else in the house with her, yet she could hear something downstairs banging in time with the gusts of wind, the echo of it rushing up the stairwell. Had she left the door open? No, she hadn’t been anywhere near the ground floor of the mansion for at least a few hours, taking some time to shower and sort her thoughts out. 

Maybe it was Brahms.

She made it to the bottom of the stairs, but the door was closed and there was no sign of anything having been disturbed. Greta took a step forward and something shifted uncomfortably in the back pocket of her jeans. 

The knife. 

She took it by the handle, pulled it out and watched as blood, warm and red, ran down the cold steel, coating her skin all the way up to the elbow. It burned. A scream started building in her throat but she swallowed it down, throwing the weapon to the floor. There, it became a ceaseless spring of blood, spreading steadily all over the wooden boards and slowly making its way to the carpet.

Lightning struck again, this time behind her. Greta turned to face the sound by instinct and the sight that greeted her, set the scream she’d held back free. 

Cole was on top of Brahms, porcelain fragment in hand, struggling against the other man’s grip. 

“NO!” Greta shouted, desperately trying to move. Only, this time she couldn’t. Her feet were stuck in place, her entire body petrified from the neck down. 

_ ‘No, no, no,-” _

But all she could do was watch the scene unfold. Cole’s hand gained ground against Brahms’ strength, pushing down to his throat. There was a terrible crack; Brahms’ grip on Cole slackened and fell away, leaving him vulnerable, defenseless. Greta wished for the knife back, she wished for her limbs to work. She would stab Cole all over again if she had to, she’d kill him to save them both.

Cole’s face was one of pure hatred as he brought down the shard, slicing Brahms’ throat open. Then he turned to look at her; she was next.

Greta couldn’t breathe. Blood filled the room, filled her vision and her lungs and-

.

.

She woke to the sound of furniture being dragged right above her.

Her room was pitch black, it was probably the middle of the night. One look at her phone screen confirmed her suspicions; 3:34 a.m. What was Brahms even doing up at this hour?  _ ‘Could be nightmares. I haven’t been sleeping well lately either,”  _ some exhausted part of her mind offered, trying to push the latest one to the margins of her consciousness - she would deal with that later. 

Still, this wasn’t like him. A bad feeling, a creeping-like sensation that climbed up her spine and settled on the back of her neck, pulled her up and away from her warm blankets. Maybe it was because of the dream she had just had - the grief of seeing him die still shockingly real despite the knowledge of it being her stress-addled brain taking the reins of her subconscious - but Greta needed to see Brahms, make sure he was alive.

It was a stupid notion, she thought as she shone her flashlight between the walls, to be so alarmed by a nightmare. She wasn’t a child anymore and he wasn’t someone she wanted to worry about - much less run to for comfort. Part of her was still annoyed at how their last conversation had gone down; he could have at least let her apologise. 

_ ‘Right, you expected reason from the creepy man in the wall? Has he even interacted with another human being before you?’  _ As justified as that thought sounded at first, she regretted it as soon as she was done thinking it. His parents, whichever afterlife they were in now, had forced their child to live inside the walls of their house for two  _ decades _ , and yet they were all he had known. He was mourning them and probably terrified of talking to her, he hid behind a mask for fuck’s sake.  _ ‘Sure, but what if the Heelshires were right? What if he actually murdered Emily Cribbs? What if he planned to do the same to you?’ _

A loud bang stopped that line of thinking in its tracks.  _ ‘That definitely came from his room.’ _ Her heartbeat picked up the pace, and so did she.

Greta burst into his hideout, eyes wide with a panic she hadn’t been able to make sense of until that very moment. 

Brahms was hanging from the ceiling, head falling to his chest at an abnormal angle, his feet hovering above the floor where a chair was toppled over. He wasn’t moving, he was- 

She didn’t finish thinking; she acted. 

The chair came first. She replaced it attempting to prop him up, but it only partially worked. 

Something sharp, she needed something to cut the rope with, something-

A cutter lay abandoned on his desk, right next to the recently put-back-together doll. Sobs clawed their way up her chest, but Greta didn’t have the time for them. She grabbed the cutter and stepped on the chair as well, slicing away at the rope until it finally broke.

He was dead weight and, as he came down, so did she. There was no time for the pain she felt, or the extra set of bruises she'd have to show for this.

The first aid training she had received during that one year in college kicked in. She put her ear near his mouth and nose to check; he wasn’t breathing.

The lump in her throat burned, demanded to be let out. 

She wouldn’t watch him die. She wouldn’t let him.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5- 

She pressed down on his chest, putting her entire weight into it. There was no way to call for help, nothing but this.

-28, 29, 30

Blocking his nose, she pressed her mouth to his.  _ ‘Please, please, please-’ _

His chest didn’t move. Brahms still wasn’t breathing.

Greta tried again, unaware of the tears that now streamed down her face. Why would he do this? How could he do this to her?

She blew air into his lungs again and let go. 

His chest moved once; then it moved again. The red bruise left behind by the rope moved with his adam’s apple and a groan escaped him as he regained consciousness

“Gr-” he tried but his vocal cords refused to cooperate.

Greta wanted to laugh. She started crying instead.

“You IDIOT,” she took his face in her hands, leaning over him, “Why? Wh- how could you do this? I-” Tears ran down his cheeks but she couldn’t tell if they only belonged to her. Her emotions conflicted with each other, one moment demanding she scream at him, the next urging her to seal her lips to his and make sure he’s still breathing. 

In the end, it took his grey-green eyes opening, looking at her with an open, adoring kind of awe she certainly didn’t deserve, and then closing again in blind trust, for Greta to figure out what she needed. 

She set her forehead on his chest, fingers tangling in his ratty cardigan, and let everything out.

  
  


\---

  
  


“Brahms.” His eyelids fluttered but didn’t open. After what was probably half an hour, Greta had forced him to stand - with her assistance - and guided him over to the bed, where they were now both sitting upright, backs propped up against the wall. She nudged at him, “Brahms, stay awake.”

He groaned in response and tried to adjust his body, accidentally knocking his forehead against a hanging star-shaped light bulb. Something about the sight had Greta fighting back a smile.

In the aftermath, an odd sense of calm had descended on the room, affecting them both. She felt lighter, sitting side by side with the ghost she had set out to catch a week ago, touching her shoulder to his and listening to his slow deep breaths. Brahms, for his part, had been quiet, alternating between dozing off and looking at her through half-lidded eyes. She didn’t prod him more than necessary - keeping him awake and checking his vitals mostly - reassured by the steady rise and fall of his chest. What she found herself avoiding, however, were the bruises; the longer they sat there the worse they looked, a reminder of what could have happened had she been a few minutes late.

“Hey, Brahms? I’ve been thinking,” she started. The idea had been bouncing around in her head for a while, “You can’t sleep here.” It wasn’t really that she disapproved of the room entirely, more like she hated the idea of leaving him alone for 8+ hours every night. She couldn’t rely on weirdly prophetic nightmares each time. “You’re too tall for this bed and,” some trepidation at what she was about to suggest made her pause, “it certainly can’t fit both of us.”

He turned his grey eyes on her so fast, Greta couldn’t stop the blush from rising to her cheeks, “What I mean is…” she swallowed, averting her eyes, “I won’t let you out of my sight. And I can’t do that if you’re sleeping on the other side of the house.” She risked a look. His mouth hung slightly open, ears turning red, as he just sat there, blinking at her. Was he offended? “I know it won’t be comfortable, sharing a bed with someone,” gods, she was babbling now, “but I swear you’ll get used to it and it would help us both and-”

“Okay.” His reply made her choke on the rest of her speech, turning it into a nervous cough.

“Good.” And it  _ was  _ good. She couldn’t pinpoint the source of her restlessness. “Great,” she added, unnecessarily, and let her feet touch the floor.

Brahms watched her as she stood and offered him a hand. Hesitantly, he reached for her, with his palm covering hers entirely all the way up to the wrist, and settled in her grip. Greta pulled him up and scrunched her nose, “You might want to get a clean set of clothes. You’re not sleeping in my bed without showering first.”

\--- 

Brahms had followed her obediently downstairs, nodding occasionally to her suggestions. He had headed straight for the bathroom once they made it there, revealing none of his thoughts or intentions. 

Greta found herself pacing in the hallway, listening to the muffled sound of hot streaming water, unable to calm her nerves. She checked her watch; it had been 10 minutes already. Too long.  _ ‘Calm down, you spend over 20 minutes in there,’  _ she tried to remind herself. 

What if he was attempting something again? Greta chewed on her nails, already half-broken from when she had tried to cut the rope earlier. She paced some more.

Another three minutes passed. 

She raised a hand, determined to knock and enter. 

The door opened.

A bare chested Brahms tried walking out and promptly stopped, barely avoiding bumping into her. She followed the trail of chest hair and water down to his hips, where a towel was secured tightly. Greta stood there stunned for several seconds.

“Are you alright?” His raspy voice made her look up. 

Greta blinked, now distracted by the wet curls hanging over his eyes, “Uh, yeah! Yeah, I’m fine, I’m great. Just… got worried.” Her embarrassment fizzled out as she remembered why she was about to knock in the first place. She stole a look at the bruise around his neck. The unnaturally red line, a stark reminder of what had happened an hour ago, was enough to sober her up. “You should get dressed.” 

He nodded, keeping his expression neutral. He resumed drying his hair with another towel, and retreated back inside the bathroom, leaving her out in the hallway to stew in the awkwardness of it all. 

Five minutes later found Greta pretending to read a magazine in bed with her back against the headboard. He hadn’t come back yet but she wasn’t about to go knocking again; she really didn’t want another image of him half naked burned into her brain. 

Despite the anticipation and the fast approaching dawn, Greta could feel herself slipping into daydreams, her limbs growing heavy with sleep. She threw the magazine on the floor, too tired to feign interest in the up and coming fashion trends. Now that the horror of the night had passed, the last of the adrenaline was leaving her system, and along with it came the sense of calm she had so sorely missed these past few days. She let her gaze wander to the window, her attention caught by a glimpse of the garden and the trees surrounding the property, coloured in the pinks and purples of dawn, beneath the cotton candy sky. She could take Brahms outside, she mused. Yes, she’d do that later. 

A figure stepped in front of the window, blocking her vision. Her heart jumped, as it took her a second to recognise it, “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Brahms pulled back the heavy curtain, shrouding the room in near darkness, and shrugged, “Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry.

“You need to start making more noise,” she followed him with her eyes as he circled around the bed and sat down on the other side. He didn’t reply. It was too dark to see properly, but Greta could make out the awkwardness she felt mirrored on his face. Of course, it made sense. She still remembered his little speech in the library, that unintended confession of feelings on his part; it was no doubt nothing bigger than a crush but now it somehow felt more important than it did back then. Well, she would be the adult here, if nothing else. 

Pulling the covers up to her neck, she turned her back to him and adjusted her pillow. “Goodnight, Brahms.”

No response came for a few moments, then she felt the mattress shift under her and a gentle pull on the blankets. He had taken extra care to not touch her. All remaining tension left her; maybe this wasn’t going to end up in disaster after all.

As she found herself drifting, she heard him say, no louder than a whisper, “Goodnight, Greta.”

-

She gasped awake. Someone was shaking her, a pair of large hands gently grasping her shoulders. 

“Greta!”

The terror of the nightmare was already receding, leaving behind only tense muscles and strained breathing. A face hovered above hers, and for a moment Greta didn’t recognise it. She was about to scream and lash out, when her mind caught up with the real world.

“Brahms?" She knew she sounded groggy and slightly confused, but he seemed relieved. He released her, flopping back down to his side with a sigh. Greta bit her lip, knowing she had probably tossed and turned a lot to make him intervene, "Did I wake you?"

"You didn't," he responded but didn't face her.

She took the opportunity to study him; he was sitting up, face turned so she could only see part of his burned cheek and the corner of his mouth. A book sat in his lap, still open. He hadn't been sleeping at all.

"Did you manage to fall asleep?" It was worth asking anyway.

"What's the point?" He turned a page, "I know what awaits me if I do."

Greta took in a big breath, held it, and let it out as she made the decision. Using the bed frame as leverage, she sat up and threw the covers off, letting them land in his lap, "Get up," he gave her what probably was an annoyed look, peeling the blanket off his book. She continued unphased, "We're getting drinks".

Brahms blanched, "It's 7 in the morning."

He had a point, but she was fed up. She just needed a quiet full 8 hours of sleep for once, and if alcohol helped her get that, then so be it. "I know, but desperate times call for desperate measures." She threw a robe over her shoulders, to combat the morning chill, and started towards the door. Hand on the handle, she paused, "You coming?"

He looked between her hand and his book for a moment, clearly considering which option would be more interesting, before giving in. Putting an odd bookmark in it, he set the book down on the nightstand and got up, grabbing his old looking dark blue robe. It was long, and would probably be swishing around his bare ankles had he not been so tall, but it did the job of covering him just fine - wearing a thin loose shirt and oversized pants was a sure way to find yourself shivering in this house. He knew that better than she did.

Greta opened the door, leading them both out of the bedroom and downstairs, to the sitting room. She gestured for Brahms to sit and made her way to the liquor cabinet. It was fully stocked; whiskey was the most plentiful, followed by all sorts of liqueurs, wine, and one sealed bottle of expensive champagne. The latter was old, probably bought and forgotten about. She couldn’t imagine any situation where the Heelshires would throw a party after their son’s supposed death. 

_ ‘Well, can’t let good alcohol go to waste.’ _ She took the champagne bottle, a self-satisfied smirk blooming on her face. What better way to honour the old couple’s memory than having a toast with their son using that one special kind of drink they had saved.

Brahms was leaning over the table, setting down two glasses, as she turned, “I’m feeling fancy,” she said, holding up her bottle of choice, “What do you say? Want some champagne?”

He raised an eyebrow, “You know how to open that?”

“Watch me.”

A bottle opener, lots of cursing and an exploding cap later - with a subsequent torrent of champagne trying to escape to the floor, Greta was finally having her drink. She wasn’t supposed to be downing champagne this fast, Sandy would probably scold her for it if she saw her now, but there were few things she still gave a damn about at the moment.

Brahms was also gulping it down faster than what was proper, but he was far from done with his second glass when Greta emptied the last drops of hers. Setting the expensive crystal glass down with none of her usual care, she tipped over the bottle to get a third round. “So,” she began, “I bet you’ve raided this cabinet for alcohol before.” 

He took another sip, “Maybe…” A ghost of a smile pulled at his lips. Greta wished it would stay. “I never dared touch this one, however,” he raised his glass to eye level, “It was only meant for ‘special occasions’.” 

She snorted, “What kind? Nothing ever happens around here,” she paused, “recent events excluded.”

He shrugged, finishing his second glass. “I didn’t ask. Not that they’d tell me.” 

Greta poured him another, “To be fair, you kept secrets too.”

“I did?”

“Oh, come on.” He just stared at her. “Really?” Greta tutted, “What were you doing during ‘Physical Exercise’ hour?”

“Exercising?” At her disbelieving look, he added, “Is that so hard to believe?”

“You’re thin as a rail, Brahms,” the alcohol was definitely loosening up her tongue if nothing else, “Though, you’re tall and…,” she trailed off, the scene from earlier, when she saw him half naked outside the bathroom, flashing in her mind. She shook her head, “What about play hour?”

He looked away, “I read. I read a lot.”

“Yeah, you do. Does that include that magazine taped to your wall?” She watched for his reaction like a hawk, grinning in satisfaction when she saw the panic in his eyes. Who knew he’d be so easy to tease.

“T-That, that’s none of your business!” he sputtered indignantly, colour rising to his cheeks and ears. He downed the rest of his drink and poured himself some more. 

Greta burst out laughing. “You’re so adorable,” she let slip between bouts of laughter. She felt warm and relaxed. More relaxed than she had felt in weeks, honestly. “Wait until you discover the internet. There’s so much stuff on there, I bet just one ‘play hour’ won’t be enough to satisfy you.” At his glare she added, still amused, “Ok, ok, fine. That’s your business.”

She got up, realising her glass was empty. The champagne was excellent, but Greta had one goal in mind; getting wasted and there was nothing better than whiskey for the job. Bending at the waist, she went for the first bottle she could grab. It had been used more often than the others, no dust gathering on the cap. 

When she turned, Brahms jumped, not meeting her eyes. He was an entirely new shade of red. Greta giggled and approached the table to pour herself a drink. She kept the drink on her tongue for a second and licked her lips clean; not bad, but gods, she’d kill for some tequila.

Brahms cleared his throat, “I wouldn’t suggest doing that.”

“What?”

“Mixing drinks,” he still looked embarrassed but he had regained his composure, “I did that once. Didn’t end well.”

“Oh, Brahms. That’s the point.” She leaned over him, drink in hand. “I spent years in bars, drinking stuff you’ve never even heard of. If I want to get drunk, I need to put more effort in.” She raised the drink, “And that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

His eyes followed her movements as she brought the glass to her lips. They trailed down her throat, watching her swallow the liquid down with a fascination that set her blood on fire - or maybe that was just the alcohol. 

Their gazes locked as soon as she finished, and she brought her hand up to wipe a drop that had escaped the corner of her lips. Greta found it captivating, the way his pupils widened as they followed her, nearly drowning out the steel grey of his irises. Briefly, she wondered how they’d look when he came undone.

Brahms opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off, afraid of what he might say, “I know what to do!” She skipped over to the record player, setting it to play the songs she had been listening to last - days ago now, she realised. Greta turned as soon as Hungarian Dance No. 11 started playing, and stretched out her arms towards him, hands open in invitation. “Dance with me?”

He looked like a fish out of water for a moment, expression slack with astonishment, but he got up. His hands were warm in hers, yet they didn’t stay there for long. Emboldened by the alcohol, Brahms moved a step closer, his long fingers circling her waist, coming to gingerly rest on it.

They swayed with the music and, Greta could swear, the room swayed along with them. Her steps took on a joyful spring, dragging her partner with her to swirl round and round, until the walls and morning light became a kaleidoscope of colours. She laughed, the slight dizziness somehow adding to her good mood. 

The song ended, another starting soon after it. Brahms was watching her with a smile as she brought them both to a stop. She was leaning heavily on him, out of breath, enjoying how solid and warm he felt under her hands. The next song seemed to fade in the background, overshadowed by the sound of her heart beating fast and loud in her chest. 

He seemed to sense the change in mood too, his smile melting, but the affection still clinging to the corners of his eyes.

Greta knew she shouldn’t still be trying to regain her breath, this wasn’t the result of dancing anymore. Sober Greta would take a step back, sit down and prepare for bed. However, this version of herself didn’t care about keeping up the facade of good and reasonable behaviour.

She stood on her tiptoes and cursed under her breath, “So fucking tall…” Then her fingers tangled in his shirt and pulled, bringing him down to her level, their lips connecting at last. 

He gasped in her mouth, surprised but willing, and gods, of course he wasn’t experienced. Part of her brain screamed for her to stop, but then Brahms cupped the back of her neck and it all ceased to matter. She let her hands wander downwards, slip under his shirt and feel the heat of his skin. He moaned - and oh gods he sounded so good, gripping her hips to bring her closer, but there was no space left between them.

Suddenly, of course, there was a knock at the door. 


	5. Placed inside, safe and sound

They split apart instantly. Something about the sound reminded Greta where she was and how close to the edge of this cliff she had come, the haze of the moment lifting momentarily. The real world was right beyond that door and whatever this need to shut it out and go back to kissing Brahms was, it was wrong; she had crossed a line but this could still be salvaged. 

“I…,” she tried and failed.  _ ‘He’s dangerous, violent, a shut-in who watched you change. You’re already broken enough as it is,’ _ her rational mind was back with a vengeance, but she couldn’t deny the truth of those thoughts. She took a deep breath and tried again, “ I’m sorry, Brahms, this shouldn’t have happened. I… I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

She didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see his face fall, but she forced herself to. The hurt in his eyes gripped her heart, digging its nails in, sharp and painful. He released her and Greta was certain she saw his lips tremble. As soon as it appeared, however, it was gone, replaced by a cold indifference that somehow hurt more. In that moment, she wanted to take it all back.

“Greta?” A muffled voice came from the door; Malcolm.

“Go to him,” Brahms said in a low voice. It lacked its usual warmth, “I’ll stay out of your way until you’re in your right mind.”

Before she could reply he had already turned, walking away and disappearing behind the corner. “Br-,” she started saying, but the door behind her clicked open and she had to force herself to stop from moving, body already half set in motion to go after him.

She could hear hesitant footsteps in the front entrance hall, just a room away. Greta shut her eyes, pushing all thoughts of the Heelshire heir from her mind, spine straightening so she'd appear dignified and far less drunk than she really was.

She turned. "Hey," the smile she gave Malcolm was probably not her best, "I didn't know you were coming over."

He didn't smile back, "I messaged you at least 3 times. You didn't answer so, since I was already in the neighbourhood I thought I'd check up on you."

"Oh," for a second she couldn't remember where her phone was. Then she remembered, "I think the battery died during the night." At the odd look on his face, she added, "I'm really sorry. Why don't you take a seat? I'll make you some coffee."

His eyes landed on the table, and so did hers. Fuck.

"Did someone come over?" Two glasses sat near the whiskey and champagne bottles. 

_ 'Shit. Think, damn it, think.' _

"That? Oh, no no no." Her voice raised in pitch, "I was having a drink. Or several really. And then champagne just really didn't do it for me so I switched to whiskey. I don't like mixing the two tastes."

He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Was he buying it? Please, buy it, please-

"I didn't reckon you'd be the type to drink before noon," Malcolm's reply came late. He approached the table, taking one hand out of his jacket pocket to tip back the champagne bottle. "This is good quality. I could swear old man Heelshire was saving one of those for something."

Greta feigned interest, "Was he?"

He set the bottle back down and didn't reply, nor did he turn to face her. "Why are you drunk, Greta?"

"I'm…," his straightforward question caught her off guard, "I was having nightmares, and I haven't slept well in a while, so I got desperate and I thought, you know, why not?” She was getting out of breath by the end of her explanation. He had no reason to suspect her, did he? “Do you want a drink?” she tried to draw his attention away from the table. 

Malcolm shook his head, “No, not really.” He finally looked up, eyes locking on hers with a seriousness that was completely uncharacteristic of him, “What I want to know is why you’re lying to me.”

Her heart stopped, “Lying?”

“I expected better of you,” he continued, “taking back your ex after what he’s done, getting drunk with him and being disrespectful to the dead, then lying to my face? I really thought you were better than that, Greta.”

“I- What?” She gaped at him. “My ex?” Dread and confusion mixed in her gut, and Greta didn’t know how to react. Had he seen Cole come in two nights ago?

“Please stop this already.” At her clueless expression, he rolled his eyes and added, voice rising, “I saw him! Just now, you were dancing with him. Where did he go, huh?” He started rolling up his sleeves, looking around, genuinely worked up, “I could teach that bloody arsehole a lesson if you want.” 

Oh. “No, no, that won’t be necessary,” she took a tentative step towards him, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“I know what I saw. Come on, Greta! You told me about what’s-his-name stalking you,” he gently set his hands on her upper arms as if trying not to spook a deer caught in headlights, “It can be hard to say no to him - I had a friend who went through the same thing, but you need to stay strong, alright?”

Greta blinked at him, still amazed at how slow yet caring her new friend was turning out to be. “It wasn’t him,” she stated simply, watching his expression change slowly from pity to confusion.

“Wait, so,” his eyebrows furrowed, “if it’s not him, then why did he leave?”

She bit her lip, “We had a… disagreement. You didn’t see that?” Greta watched for his response with concealed apprehension. She couldn’t really ask him if he had seen them kiss without outright telling him. 

“No, I just saw you two dancing, right by the window.”

She breathed a sigh of relief; good, he didn’t know.

“He’s a friend, isn’t he?” Greta opened her mouth to respond but no words came out. Malcolm continued, eyes narrowing with a conspiratorial glint to them, “No, wait, he’s more than a friend, clearly. I don’t dance with my friends like  _ that _ .”

All the tension and fight that had taken over sweet, cheerful Malcolm evaporated as this new idea took hold. He chuckled and plopped down on the armchair she had offered him earlier, “I gotta say. I thought I’d be more jealous, but I reckon it’s because I still got a chance with you - since he so rudely abandoned you in the middle of a dance and everything.” He raised both hands seeing her expression, another chuckle bubbling up in his chest, “Just joking! Not interested. Pinky promise?”

“Don’t joke about that, Malcolm,” she pouted in feigned annoyance, crossing her arms over her chest, “And no, there’s nothing between me and Br- him.” The effects of the alcohol were quickly fading, draining out of her system, but she kept tripping up. Gods, was she going to spill the entire truth by mistake next?  _ ‘Get it together, Greta, for fuck’s sake!’ _

“Okay, okay. I believe you.” He turned his eyes back to the champagne, “I hope Mr Heelshire’s ghost won’t haunt you, though. This was meant for his son.”

Her breath caught, “It was?”

Malcolm nodded solemnly, “He told me he got it to share with his son on the anniversary of the kid’s death. He would’ve been 28 if he still lived. I didn’t think much of it when he told me, cause, you know, many people share alcohol with the dead. Maybe the old man was reminiscing about all he never got to teach him.” He frowned at the bottle, “Guess he never went through with it. Heartbreaking, isn’t it?” 

Greta felt like the wind was completely stolen from her lungs. The question came out of her without prompting, “His birthday. When was it?”

“Late September, I think. So around now?” 

“I see,” her voice had grown quiet, be it from shock or just the screaming realisation of why he had attempted suicide last night. 

Malcolm seemed to sense her change in mood. He leaned forward, “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, I just,” she blinked back the dizzying whirlwind of thoughts, “I think I’m finally getting sleepy.”

“Oh!” He got to his feet instantly, “I shouldn’t keep you then!” Straightening his jacket, Malcolm buried his hands in his pockets again and smiled, “Give me a ring if you change your mind about going out, okay? And invite your friend. Can’t wait to meet him properly. Hope he’s not too much of a wet blanket.”

Greta nodded, mirroring his smile but not his good mood, “He’s a bit of an introvert, but I’ll try.”

“Right.” He seemed disappointed as she walked him to the front door. “See you Monday then.”

“Thanks for checking up on me, Malcolm.” 

He tipped his non-existent hat at her. “No problem.”

Greta closed the door with a polite smile.

As soon as she heard the car engine start, she was off.

\---

“Brahms?” her voice echoed in the empty room as she climbed up to the mezzanine. Greta didn’t want to look down; she had caught sight of the rope and the chair as she was coming in, and the mere shape of them brought flashes of dangling feet and creaking wood. "Brahms," she tried again, the entire situation feeling a lot like deja vu, "are you here?"

No reply. Greta was getting progressively more annoyed at him, despite her earlier conviction of apologising. She'd searched the entire ground floor and the one above it, went to the library, made her presence and her intention to talk to him clear, yet she got no answer, no signs of life. Brahms was nowhere to be found and it made the knot in her chest that much tighter, for reasons she didn’t want to acknowledge. 

There was nowhere else to look. Greta glanced at the ladder that faced her from inside the hole in the wall. It went down - to god knows where - and up.

The top floor; the one that had burned down. Gods, she was an idiot. Of course that’s where he went. 

It was an easy enough fit through the hole, but her shirt caught some dust and dirt from the bricks. How Brahms managed to go through and then twist his entire body to get on that ladder, she couldn’t even imagine. The metal was cold under her hands and her muscles burned as she pulled herself up, reminding her of how out of shape she was getting. 

It wasn’t a long climb. The top floor, the one that was forbidden to her since the day she had arrived, was smaller than the others. The path that greeted her was narrow and went in two directions; if her memory of the map she had drawn was correct, one of them led to the attic. Her annoyance spiked for a moment, as she remembered how he had left her trapped in there that day, just having a laugh at her expense. Asshole.

The other direction led to an opening, left slightly ajar, just enough for a few rays of light to pass through and light up the copious amounts of floating dust around it. Greta put her sleeve over her mouth and nose, wary of what was in the old victorian walls, and made her way to it. The false panel creaked with disuse as she pushed it outwards, the disturbance causing a curtain of dust to fall from it - she was definitely going to need another shower after this. 

Whatever Greta had pictured this room would look like when she was making plans to explore the entire house, it was nowhere close to the truth. The height of the ceiling fluctuated between tall and short, following in part the large roof it was set under. Burn damage marred the cream walls, having burned through the intricate deep petrol wallpaper in places, all of it leading directly to the marble fireplace. Where a large rug should have been, the wooden floor was empty, the few pieces of furniture left in the room standing around quietly like ghosts, covered with white sheets and several layers of dust. Her stomach twisted; this place was stuck in time, filled with echoes of its chilling past. 

In the middle of it all sat Brahms. 

He had peeled off the covering of an armchair, where he now sat, and promptly let it fall to the floor. There was barely any light in the room, the smaller windows covered by shutters, while the biggest one was simply boarded over, its painted glass broken. Still, a few beams slithered in through the cracks, the sunlight bold enough to create a halo around him as it struck him from the front, his back to her. 

“Brahms?” Her voice came out unsure. She was here to apologise for the champagne, nothing more.

He gave no sign of having heard her. Was he really that mad at her? Greta took a few steps forward, following the path of little to no dust he had cleared before her.

“That was quick.” His voice stopped her a few feet away from him. “Malcolm didn’t want to stay over for lunch?”

Something in his tone irked her, “No, he was just checking up on me.”

He made a humming noise in understanding, “He cares about you.” He shifted in his chair. “Clearly you care for him too.”

Greta blinked. Was he insinuating what she thought he was? “I do. He’s been very kind to me.” She could see his hands on the arms of the chair. His knuckles turned white.

“Good.” He said it like Malcolm had just passed some kind of test, but there was still bitterness in his voice. “You’ll be great for each other.”

That was it. Fuck the apology.

She went around the armchair in a few strides, coming to face him with a level of anger she had no explanation for. “What is this, Brahms? Do you think you have some kind of say over my choices? Because if you really think so, let me make this clear. You don’t.”

He stood, something that rested in his lap cluttering to the floor as he did. “Aren’t you always right, Greta?” She could see his jaw moving as he paused, gritting his teeth no doubt, “You’re so morally superior, so much better than me. Really, I wonder how you can even stand the sight of me.” His face twisted as he said it, half-scarred, frightening.

She was about to respond when her eyes caught sight of the object that had fallen down. It was the photo album from the attic, face up, still open. Emily Cribbs scrunched her nose up at them from its pages, unaware of a neutral faced young Brahms staring at her back. “What about her?” Greta pointed down at the picture, “you killed her, didn’t you?”

Brahms followed her gaze and a change came over him. His gaze unsettled her, his eyes becoming unfocused, wide, dark. “Yes,” his answer was quiet, “Everybody knows it,  _ he  _ told you too.” He was looking at her but he wasn’t, his breathing growing louder along with his voice. “She looked at me with such disgust, she didn’t even want to be there. I was angry, so angry.” Part of her didn’t want to hear the rest, part of her wanted to cover her ears and close her eyes and pretend she’d never asked the question in the first place. Brahms continued, uncaring, lost in memory, “I threw a rock at her, she yelped. Then she charged at me and threw me in the mud. Mother hated the mud so much, she was going to yell at me. I had to defend myself, she yelled how much she hated me, how her parents made her come and I didn’t deserve any friends. I threw her down, she fell on something hard. The sound, God, the sound was horrible…”

Greta was stunned, “Then you didn’t-”

“I did. I killed her. Her neck snapped, I could tell because Father taught me how to hunt.” His focus had returned and it was now solely on her, “I wanted her dead before that, Greta. And you,” he took a step closer, “you saw what I did to Cole.”  _ For me _ , she wanted to say,  _ you did that for me _ . He went on, “You know what I’m capable of, so stop denying it.”

“I wasn’t going to deny it. But you’re not as bad as you think you are, Brahms.”

He chuckled, a broken sound. “There it is. You’re doing it again. Giving me understanding and affection in one breath, then taking it away with the next.” He spread his arms, “Go for it, I’m waiting. Remind me how much of a monster I am.”

Greta shook her head, her temper flaring again, “I came here to apologise to you, you know. But no, little Brahms has to throw a temper tantrum and a jealousy fit on top of that. I don’t know what I expected of someone who clearly thinks he owns me.”

He towered over her, body tense, and Greta’s instinct told her he was going to hit her, maybe throw her against the wall. Neither happened. “How can a monster own anything?” He raised a hand to brush her hair out of her face, but he hesitated, fingers suspended mid air. He breathed, long and deep, “I know that’s what you think of me, Greta. I’ve told you before, you’re free to leave.”

She searched his eyes for the lie, still angry at him. “You promise, then? To let me go if that’s what I want?”

“I do.” The corners of his mouth turned upwards, “as if I could stop you anyway. You’re not property, I don’t share my parents’ views on that.” She wanted to believe him so badly, she wanted to trust him.

He turned away from her, leaning down to pick the photo album up. Greta had come here for a reason, she remembered now that the haze of anger lifted. “I’m sorry, Brahms. For opening the champagne.”

He gave her a puzzled look, “Why would you be?”

Oh gods, he didn’t know.

“I…,” she paused, thinking of a way to make the impact of it softer, “Malcolm told me that your father was keeping the bottle for you; for when you came of age.”

His face fell. Greta’s heart clenched. 

“Oh,” was all he said for a full minute. Then, “He never mentioned it.”

“Maybe he forgot,” she tried, “he was getting old.”

Brahms lowered his head, busying himself with the album, shoulders hunched. She wanted to touch him so badly in that moment, her previous words nothing but hollow sentiments, but she stopped herself. He would get the wrong idea. 

“Maybe,” he agreed after a moment.

Silence fell between them.

What was it about him that drove her mad like this? She had lost sense of what she wanted out of this conversation until the very last moment, feeling things with a force she hadn’t felt about anything in years. He was a headache, he wasn’t her responsibility, he had promised to let her go and not chase her - and somehow that had felt like the truth. And yet, part of Greta didn’t want to leave.

It was the attempt, she reassured herself and stole a glance at his bruised neck. Greta might have blood on her hands now, but she still had some sense of morality left. She just needed to get him some proper help for his mental issues, maybe have him meet Malcolm too, and then she would leave.

“Do you want some lunch?” She tried to add a smile to the question. 

Until Brahms was back on his feet, she was going to stay. She owed him that much.

\----

The forks clinked against a glass as Greta picked them up and put them under the water spray. She could feel Brahms’ eyes on her back from his spot at the table as she scrubbed. He had barely spoken a word to her since they came downstairs to eat, instead favouring nods and other types of gestures in response to her questions. Not that she had asked him anything important, really. The one sided conversation was mostly confined to: “Do you want more cheese?” and “Can you pass me the salt, please?”

What else could she say? She knew she had acted like an ass towards him, but so had he. Some tiny part of her was still pissed at his jealousy-filled tirade. The guts on that guy! Accusing her of somehow conspiring to run away with Malcolm of all fucking people - as if that was something she could do, or that she considers herself some kind of saint. She scrubbed harder.  _ ‘Deep breaths Greta, there’s no reason to get worked up again.’ _

She looked over her shoulder. Brahms was sitting where she’d left him, hunched over the table, back resting against the chair, reading his book from earlier. 

“Haven’t you read this one before?” He was holding an older edition of Jane Eyre, the cover of which was warm brown, adorned with knots and flowers. Greta knew for a fact that he had read it before and the question was an obvious attempt at getting more than two consecutive words out of him. She also had not, even in her wildest dreams, thought she would see a man read women’s literature. 

He grunted at first but, just as she was starting to get irritated again, he spoke, “It has a good ending.” Then he went back to reading as if that answered her question.

“I wouldn’t call that ending good,” she stated simply, “it’s bittersweet.”

He set the book down, “Why?”

Greta raised an eyebrow at him, “Mr Rochester ends up in more pain than he deserves. He can’t see Jane anymore without his eyesight, can he?”

“He’s done bad things,” Brahms countered, “but not seeing her is a small price to pay if he gets to live out the rest of his life with her.”

She paused and turned back to the sink. “I guess. Still, I wouldn’t want the man I love to suffer like that.” Her stomach twisted as she thought back to the list of his favourites Mrs Heelshire had given her. She had never read half of those books, but during the course of her stay she’d had to read them to him - or rather to the doll. Most had dark, gloomy endings. “Hey, Brahms,” she attempted to change the subject, “can you take out the trash?” 

“No.”

Greta did a double take, “What? Why not?”

“I don’t go outside.”

He was dead serious, she could hear it in his voice. “Well, why not? It’s just a short walk to the gate and you don’t have any neighbours.”

He got up, abruptly. “You wouldn’t understand.”

She narrowed her eyes, “Are you trying to get out of doing chores?”

He didn’t laugh, “I told you before. Bad things happen when I go outside.”

Greta set the last of the plates on the drying rack and turned, wiping her hands on the towel. “How do you know?” He clearly believed what he was saying, she could see it now that she faced him properly, “Have you tried leaving?”

This time he laughed, but it wasn’t a joyful sound, “Look around you. Why do you think they had to seal up the windows?” 

Oh.

He went on, “It was a lesson I had to learn the hard way. Not that I blame them.”

She bit her lip, “You should. Blame them I mean.” She took a few steps closer to the table. “There was no reason to let their son rot in the walls when what he really needed was help.”

“Really?” His eyebrows rose in disbelief, “I mean look at me, Greta. There’s no way to help someone like me. If they had let me go free, how many more people would I have killed?”

Gods, the amount of trauma and brainwashing ingrained into this man’s head was astonishing. Greta didn’t know if she was mad at him or his parents or herself even for getting involved in this mess of a family. “We’ll never know, Brahms, because  _ you haven’t been outside for 20 years. _ You want me to stay here? You have to start pulling your weight around the house.” She set both hands on the table, determined to change at least this much in him, “Now, put on some shoes. We’re going outside.” 

He mumbled something under his breath, but Greta didn’t stay to hear the rest. She marched out of the kitchen, pulled on her boots, and waited at the door, arms crossed. 

She didn’t have to wait long; he showed up maybe a minute later, wearing shoes that didn’t fit him properly, and an old coat that would be awfully long on anybody else but fell almost too short on him. Seriously, how did he get such ridiculously long legs.

“Come on,” she said and turned the handle, swinging the heavy wooden door open. The air was cleaner outside, crisp and chilly, it almost felt like home.

Brahms hesitated at the threshold. He looked out, beyond the porch and the entryway, to the edge of the garden where the trees surrounding the property started. 

“I can’t,” he stated simply, his face paling.

“Yes, you can.” Greta took a step forward, through the doorway. She raised her arm and offered it to him.

Brahms’ gaze flickered between her eyes and her hand, stretched out in front of him, open and welcoming. It took him a moment or two, his lips stretching into a thin line, but eventually he began raising his own; he let it hover above hers for a second, uncertain and - if her eyes did not deceive her - shaking, before lowering it. Greta’s fingers wrapped around his palm and she nearly jumped at how much colder than usual his skin was.

No more words were spoken; she tugged at him, feeling his pulse jump beneath the pads of her fingers, and Brahms stepped forward. He shut his eyes tightly the moment he passed the threshold, some kind of panic she hadn’t accounted for building in him. His breathing came out uneven, his hand tightening on her hers to the point of pain - though he seemed unaware of it. She watched his knuckles turn white and she held back a whimper at how unbearable his grip was becoming.

“Brahms,” she had to keep her voice steady, for him. “Listen to me. Focus on the sound of my voice. You’re doing fine.” She pulled again, and he took another step. “I need you to open your eyes. Please.”

He took a deep breath. Steel grey met green. 

Greta continued, “Look at me, I’m here with you. Whatever it is you’re afraid of, I can make sure it doesn’t happen.” Her heart skipped a beat at the unrestrained trust in his eyes. “Relax your hand. I’m not letting you go.”

Brahms nodded and did as he was told. The relief was near instant, as his thumb caressed the redness on her palm away. “Sorry…” he started apologising, but she shook her head.

“It’s alright.” Greta smiled, “Do you want to see the garden?”

She didn’t need an answer. They went down the stairs, leaving the porch behind. The dirt path was well maintained, taking them through beautifully shaped bushes - some of them filled with dark red roses, until they reached their destination. Intricate pillars held up a partially open roof, made of arches and alcoves with stone benches, all of it standing on a sprawling semi-circular walkway littered with dead leaves; this place was something out of a renaissance painting but with a dark twist to it - made for secret passionate trysts rather than the usual cookie cutter romance. 

Greta stepped under the first of the stone arches, pulling Brahms with her. She let her eyes wander, following the massive dead plant that scaled the walls all the way to the peak of the arch. In her mind’s eye it bloomed green and heavy with fragrant flowers, strong and full of life, matching its surroundings - even surpassing them in beauty. Maybe spring could make that happen. 

Greta sobered at the thought; she wouldn’t be around to see it.

Her attention returned to Brahms. There was an eagerness in him she hadn’t seen before, as he took in the smells and sights and sounds. She didn’t need to drag him along anymore, the earlier panic merely a bad memory, as he stood right beside her, amazement written all over his face.  _ Good _ , some part of her thought,  _ this is going well _ . At this rate she’d be out of here by winter; her stomach flipped.

She weaved her fingers through his, setting those concerns aside for the moment. “Let’s circle around,” she suggested, giving his hand a light squeeze.

They took their time. 

The sun was beginning its slow descent in the west, turning everything it touched golden, when the two of them finally reached the other side. The cemetery lay a few feet away, to their right, and Greta caught Brahms looking in its direction.

“We should head inside,” she said in an attempt to draw his attention away. 

He didn’t respond. Instead, he let go of her hand and strode towards the family cemetery, covering the distance far faster than she could, both because it took her a moment to realise what had happened and because of how much taller he was.

“Wait!” He didn’t even turn at her shout, but by the time she reached him he had slowed down. They weaved between angel statues and tombs, some darkened by rain, others almost entirely reclaimed by nature. Greta hadn’t realised that the Heelshire family was so old or had been so big at some point in time. She didn’t manage to think on it further however, because Brahms came to a halt.

“This is it.”

He was standing in front of his own grave.

“ _ He shall not perish, but have everlasting life, _ ” he read it out loud, then just stood there, staring. Greta watched him, wary of his silence. His good mood from earlier had all but evaporated.

When he let out a laugh, clear and loud, that was when she began to get concerned. 

“Why…?” she was baffled by his reaction.

“It’s hilarious,” he managed between giggles, “They always had a very grim sense of humour, my parents.”

“Wait, so you’ve never seen your own grave?”

He shrugged, swallowing down more laughter, “I was too young back then. Mother had a fright, scared I’d actually die of my injuries at some point. By the time I was older and healthy again, I had stopped asking to go outside.” He turned to her, spreading his arms, “Look at me now! I’m very much still alive despite my best efforts. My parents must be very disappointed in me, they got it right the first time.”

Greta gaped at him and started saying something, when she realised his smile was faltering. It cracked, his expression shattering with it, and Brahms Heelshire fell into a crouch, a hand against the gravestone, face burying in his knees.

She didn’t say anything, in the end - there really were no words in a situation like this. She just crouched down beside him and put a hand on his back, tracing circles in what she hoped was a comforting way. It was dusk already when they finally made it back inside.

They went to sleep soon after, Brahms falling asleep faster than her, curling in on himself on his side of the bed. The desire to turn and offer him a place in her arms was stronger than ever, but Greta was too exhausted to give into it. She could only hope that things would be better in the morning. 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic mostly for myself a while back. I'm very self conscious about how soft it is, please don't kill me ><   
> If you leave a comment, I will love you forever!


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